


Greater Love Hath No Man (Than That He Don a Feathery Hat for His Wife)

by brutti_ma_buoni



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 06:44:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17637767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brutti_ma_buoni/pseuds/brutti_ma_buoni
Summary: Sir Samuel Vimes is in need of inspiration for a Significant Occasion. However much he tries to make it someone else's problem, in the end, it's Vimes who has to see it through.





	Greater Love Hath No Man (Than That He Don a Feathery Hat for His Wife)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Small_Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/gifts).



> Takes place between Feet of Clay and Jingo, for no special reason except I didn't feel like Vimes was a Duke yet. 
> 
> Fessing up: I've narrowed the gap between Vetinari and Sybil's ages a bit too much in Vimes's speculation, considering their ages in Night Watch. But then, maybe he isn't thinking too clearly (and he hasn't been John Keel yet). The timeline on the Vimes's marriage is likewise rather speculative, thanks to a nicely blurry and unspecific canon.

A breeze rippled across the air of Ankh-Morpork. Well, perhaps rippled isn’t quite the word. Trudged, maybe. Made its way, possibly. Anyway, the breeze managed to get from one side of the city to another, an achievement not to be sniffed at. But this breeze did, in fact, cause sniffing. 

Ankh-Morpork, the city of glories, the jewel of the plain, had been having a summer season lately. A warm, fetid season, when the growth upon the river Ankh flourished thick and bloated, and the citizens wilted in corners, avoiding the rays of the Disc’s usually-feeble sun, and trying to take very shallow breaths without use of their noses. It had been a pungent season. The sniffing, therefore, was a sign of change. 

It was a sign of autumn, in fact. A hint of woodsmoke. A breath of chill. A whimsy of turning leaves (not that Ankh-Morpork had many leaves to turn, but the citizens retained the concept in case it ever came in useful). 

The light breeze of change rippled as far as the Watch House in Pseudopolis Yard, where the Commander of the City Watch, Sir Samuel Vimes, was relaxing with his feet up, and his nose in a series of quite interesting reports about evidence of a new troll-gnome axis in the organised crime sector. He raised said nose, sniffed, and then snorted. His feet descended from the desk. His eyes left the report text and raised their gaze to the middle distance. And his brow furrowed.

It stayed furrowed for a whole hour, while the Watch carried on running itself, little knowing that its Commander was no longer wholly in command. 

*

“Sergeant Angua, if you please.” Vimes jerked his head at his subordinate, in a fashion suggesting an urgent interview was required.

“Sir?” said Angua, reasonably obediently. She had been interrupted while investigating some probably-incompetent-but-just-possibly-corrupt inconsistencies in the weapons room inventory, and was content to leave interrogating Nobby for another day. He was a very unsatisfactory interrogatee, always protesting innocence and looking injured, against all evidence and common sense. 

Vimes closed his office door very carefully behind the sergeant once she had entered. He coughed, and shuffled his feet. He was in a remarkable number of ways acting unlike himself. Angua watched him with caution. 

“It has come to my attention,” he said eventually, with reluctance, “That it is going to be autumn.”

Angua nodded. It was indisputable. But not, at least until now, remarkable.

“Lady Sybil and I were married in the autumn.”

Angua nodded again. Slightly less perplexedly. 

“It was some years ago,” said Vimes, his voice clotted with embarrassment. 

Angua nodded. “A… significant number of years?” she enquired.

“Yes,” said Vimes, relieved. “I think we could say that.”

“And,” pursued Angua, “You feel you should mark it in some way?”

Vimes nodded. More accurately, and he felt that Angua could divine this, he felt that _Sybil_ would feel it should be marked in some way. Sybil was a very sensible woman. But she did have views on certain subjects. 

“A gift,” said Angua, brightly, in the manner of a subordinate drawn into conversation on personal matters purely on grounds of her gender. Bright, but _pointed_ , if Vimes had been noticing. 

He was not. He barely knew the sergeant was in the room, in fact. “Lady Sybil is a wonderful woman,” he said, and received no argument. Angua considered anyone who could put up with the Commander, his workaholism, and his grimly realistic view of humanity, and look gracious while doing it was a pretty remarkable person. And Sybil also held very helpful tea mornings for the women of Ankh, at which persons of a particular sex could share Views, Opinions, and, most importantly Frustrations, about issues which seemed not to have occurred to the city’s men. For some reason. 

Vimes continued, oblivious to Angua, “But she is quite… tricky… to buy for. What with… the money. And… well, I know her passions, obviously-“ Angua nodded again. The tea mornings were usually hosted by Lady Sybil in full dragon-keeping gear, and often adorned by three or four sick dragon pups, in advanced stages of personal care from her ladyship. “-but it’s not as if I can get her some more leathers. Or feed. Not for an anniversary,” said Vimes. 

Angua nodded, yet again. It was probably time to say something. “Not for a significant anniversary, sir,” she said. It was true. Dragons might be Lady Sybil’s passion, but she had everything she needed for them. And the odd rare overseas dragon-keeping manual might pass muster for Hogswatch, but it wouldn’t quite qualify for a Significant Anniversary. 

“Well, er, see to it, would you?” said Vimes. Avoiding her eyes. 

“Sir?” said Angua. She might also have growled, but only slightly. Vimes was top dog in the Watch, at least. “You want me to buy Lady Sybil an anniversary present?”

“I’ll pay,” said Vimes, hastily. “Of course.”

“Yes, sir,” said Angua, firmly.

*

It wasn’t done to complain too much about the Commander. Not to subordinates, anyway. But any good sergeant needs to find herself a complaining-companion, for when the world just gets too annoying. And luckily, Angua and Cheery could fulfil the job for each other. 

They met over beers, in Biers. 

“Gold’s nice,” said Cheery, helpfully. “I know it’s a cliché, but-“

“She’s the richest woman in Ankh,” Angua pointed out. “And she never wears jewellery, except when she’s fancied up for some event. I don’t think she really cares about it.”

“And she’s never short of jewels when she needs them,” Cheery agreed. “Though, can you ever really have enough gold?”

Angua said, firmly, “I’m fairly sure Lady Sybil can.” Dwarves, honestly. Only interested in one thing. 

“She’s not really one for make-up, is she?” Cheery asked, wistfully. “I mean, a lovely makeover-“ 

“No,” Angua agreed. Quite quickly. Cheery’s campaign to bring dwarf makeovers to Ankh-Morpork’s female dwarf population had led to her being ejected for Persistent Helpful Suggestion-Making from Crumley’s, Horrids and (most recently) the Drapers Guild of Ankh (Maul branch). The ladies who applied maquillage to the icy visages of the Top Nobs of Ankh, as Vimes tended to call them, had yet to come to terms with beards as a facial feature. 

“I can’t believe Vimes got you doing this,” Cheery said, diverted by Angua’s obvious discontent. “Just because-“

“I know,” Angua agreed. Quickly, again. “You’re lucky he didn’t ask you.” 

Cheery’s face didn’t agree. Cheery, apparently, would have loved to be Vimes’s chosen gift consultant. “We could go shopping together anyway,” she suggested. Hopefully. Angua suspected Cheery of plotting to get back into the best shops in Ankh, by hiding behind a werewolf-Watchman, someone most shopkeepers found quite hard to say no to. 

“Sorry,” said Angua. “I’m pretty sure if you can buy it, it’s not good enough.” 

Cheery’s face continued to disagree, but Angua knew she was in the right. 

*

“What would you give me for a special day?” she asked Carrot, later. In their bedroom, with the curtains closed very firmly indeed (there was no moon, tonight, but Angua didn’t believe in getting sloppy). 

“Anything you would like,” Carrot responded, romantically but unhelpfully. “I mean, if you ever thought that we could-“

Angua pinched her nose, hard, to stop bad words from escaping. “This isn’t about us,” she said. Not about marriage, or not about _their_ marriage, or lack thereof. She didn’t need a ring, and didn’t want to be someone’s bonded property anyway. Carrot’s dwarf upbringing continued to find this, not exactly scandalous, but a touch uncomfortable. “Just tell me, what you’d do, to be extra specially nice to me, if there was ever a particular reason to do it.”

Carrot’s ears turned red. Angua laughed. “Well, yes, that,” she said. “But something that’s a present, too?”

“I should take you for a lovely walk,” said Carrot, recovering his composure. “Along the river, or around the city walls.” 

_Well, that should be scenic,_ said Angua’s internal voice. _Or at least…olfactory._

“There’s a very interesting example of Old Ankh water-supply that has been uncovered near the docks,” Carrot continued. “We could take a tour, and have a nice drink in one of the local hostelries, and- Well, spend some time together in an interesting and improving fashion. Away from the Watch, and all the other things that we do all the time.”

Angua looked at him. “You know,” she said, “You have a point.”

“Next Octeday?” said Carrot, hopefully. “We’re both off duty.” 

There was nothing special about next Octeday. And yet…

*

Vimes was unimpressed. Angua persistent. 

“Oh, all _right_ ,” he said, eventually. “Maybe it’s not about just buying something. I’ll go to the Palace.”

*

The Patrician did not keep Vimes waiting, which was an unfortunate change. Nor did he quibble, pretend to misunderstand, nor suggest manifestly impossible options that Vimes could have laughed to scorn. 

Really, Vimes thought bitterly, what was the point of living under a ruthless tyrant if he couldn’t make things difficult when you needed?

“I think we can identify a suitably uplifting occasion to make Syb- Lady Sybil happy,” said Vetinari instead. Something about his face _softened_ , in a way Vimes wished he hadn’t seen. He forgot, sometimes, that the Patrician had been young once. Presumably, sometime, a young Havelock Vetinari in short trousers had been herded around aristocratic children’s parties, dominated by a diminutive, scarlet-faced Ronald Rust and his howling minions. And there encountered a sensible little Sybil, in sturdy shoes, who had probably shown him her dragon books, and listened to anything he was incautious enough to say. Sybil wasn’t ever a socialite, but she was rather good at getting people to talk. 

The Patrician did not, of course, have friends. Vimes rather suspected he saw most of Ankh-Morpork’s citizenry as rather like a flea circus. Amusing, but … small. Vimes had perhaps reached the status of a cockroach, or a rat. An intelligent subordinate, once trained. But maybe the Patrician thought of Sybil as a real person. 

“Something ancient, of course. And renowned,” Vetinari was saying. 

“Something with a big hat,” Vimes added gloomily. It wasn’t a proper honorific ceremony if it didn’t have a big hat. “And knee-breeches, probably.” 

“Something royal-“ said Vetinari, but before Vimes could expostulate, he smoothly corrected course to, “Would be inappropriate in this case.” He paused, pondered, and then called for Drumknott. “We have an appointment to make. Please take a note.”

*

Vimes gave his wife flowers for their fifth wedding anniversary. Flowers and a kiss, and an awkward but heartfelt sentence or two about how glad he was that she hadn’t been eaten but had nonetheless been seriously menaced by a magical dragon, in a way that had enabled their lives to connect, that time that seemed unimaginably long ago but in point of fact really was not. Just a _significant_ number of years ago. That had changed Vimes’s life in a thousand good ways. And Sybil’s in… well. One or two good ways at least. He hoped.

Sybil kissed him back, and gave him (another) new cigar case, full of Pantweed’s finest. They smiled at one another, and then she turned to put on her heavy dragonkeeping boots. Just another day.

“Oh, my dear,” said Vimes, theatrically pausing in his own routine. “If you could be ready for seven-thirty this evening, I’ve an engagement to keep. Full dress, and all that.”

Sybil looked at him, foot half-into a boot. “Sam? You don’t usually look so calm about-“ but she prudently stopped that thought before it could cloud the marital harmony. 

“Well, I thought it was time,” said Vimes. “Happy anniversary, my dear.” 

Sybil smiled. Properly smiled. And finished putting her rubber boots on. 

*

A young and unregarded nobleman, named William de Worde, carefully copied out his newsletter for the fifth time. Was the Vimes story really as dull as it seemed? He feared so. 

_Sir Samuel and Lady Sybil Vimes were seen in full fig and feather at Sir Samuel’s inauguration as Grand Master of the Numinous Flintknappers, following the sad demise of Lord Mendacii. Sir Samuel, often to be seen escaping his social obligations due to outbreaks of unrest in this great city, stayed until the ceremony ended, and was observed in excellent spirits._

William put down his pen and looked at the paragraph. There wasn’t really scope to include Lady Selachi’s commentary in his newsletter. Her Ladyship had called the Vimes’s conduct “most unseemly”, but when William asked for details she could only mention some hand-holding, and smiling. William suspected she was mostly scandalised that a married couple wanted to spend an evening in each other’s company. 

It _was_ unusual behaviour. But not exactly news. William drew a careful line under his dull paragraph, and began on the next. 

***


End file.
